


Skeletons In The Closet

by slashaholic666 (queerlybeloved777)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bestiality, Blood As Lube, Davian Behavior, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Erotophonophilia, Fantasy Colin Creevey/Basilisk, Fantasy Colin Creevey/Cedric Diggory, Fantasy Colin Creevey/Dementor, Fantasy Colin Creevey/Firenze, Fantasy Colin Creevey/Ginny Weasley, Fantasy Colin Creevey/Werewolf, Flobberworm As Fleshlight, Flobberworm Mucus As Lube, Intrusive Thoughts, Murder Kink, Necrobestiality, Necrophilia, Other, POV Minor Character, Puberty, Wound Fucking, sexual fantasies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-28
Updated: 2020-03-28
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:55:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23364304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queerlybeloved777/pseuds/slashaholic666
Summary: Dead Dove: Do Not Eat.Or rather - Dead Dove: Watching Davian behaviour and listening to shows about murder investigations probably shouldn’t elicit that response. For that matter, Colin should probably stop fantasizing about dead classmates.Or rather - Dead Dove: Do Not Fuck.
Relationships: Colin Creevey/Flobberworm
Kudos: 11





	Skeletons In The Closet

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the [ten classes](https://sci-hub.se/10.1016/j.jflm.2008.12.023) of necrophilia (categorization from 2009), I based this take on him on _Class X. Exclusive Necrophile_. After looking at the [ten classes](https://sci-hub.se/10.1016/j.jflm.2011.01.004) of zoophilia (2011), I can say there’s evidence for _Class IX. Homicidal Bestial_ (or a necrozoophile). For some of the earlier fantasies, it’s closer to faunoiphilia or zoophilic voyeurism, though, and it’s not really established that Colin is specifically attracted to the animals involved, so I’ve tagged for bestiality and necrobestiality instead of zoophilia and necrozoophilia. (Po-tay-to, po-tah-to.)
> 
> While no doubt squicks for some people, I haven’t negated how Colin acts in canon or deviated wildly from events (canonical death in The Final Battle).

It was a simple fascination.

Around the age of five, Colin could remember looking out the window at the tree along the fence of the Creevey’s back garden. He had nicked Dad’s polaroid camera because he needed to practice getting his timing right on pressing the button, but the crows along the branches of the tree were moving around too much. He glanced down to the ground in the hope that one of them wasn’t moving quite as much while picking insects out of the grass. Colin was in luck, and he had a polaroid grey and developing before he had registered what the crow on the ground was doing. It was crouched on the back of another crow, shifting and flapping its wings.

The crow on the bottom was lying very still and didn’t appear to be reacting to what was happening to it. Colin had seen Mrs. Wheelwright’s dog being mounted by the stud brought in to breed her last spring, and while the crows weren’t quite doing the same exact thing, it looked awfully similar. It was only after the crow had flown away that he realized the one on the ground wasn’t alive. Colin tucked the polaroid into a shoe box after it had finished developing. Mum hadn’t been very thrilled to find out he’d seen the dogs breeding, and he didn’t think she’d like this any better.

The following spring Colin barely gave any thought to the squirrels chasing each other around Mr. Thielsen’s yard and across the road. It was spring, and he had cottoned on to most animals needing to do this breeding thing in order to have babies. He paused in bringing his brother’s bicycle into the yard (so it wouldn’t be in the way of Dad’s car, according to Mum) when he caught a glimpse of several squirrels coalescing around the kerb. Someone had run one over, but it was still fresh enough for the scent-hormone-things (he had heard about on one of the nature shows his parents watched) to be active. One squirrel had mounted the dead one, and it was thrusting away.

Colin set the bike down in the yard and went inside. He wasn’t spooked by the tingling in his privates, but he knew well enough that he couldn’t do anything about it where others could see him. He grabbed Mum’s pillow with the bumps that vibrated when the switch was flipped on from its place next to her armchair in the living room, and he snuck into his cupboard in his room. Colin didn’t particularly care about the massage part of the pillow; he just liked the warm, twitchy feeling in his privates that he could get when he sat on the pillow while it vibrated. He liked that he could rest his knees on either side and thrust his hips down into it like the squirrel thrusting into the dead one.

It was a simple fascination.

When Mum was doing the dishes, she would find a crime show on the telly. He would volunteer to dry them, and it meant that he could hear the narrator talking. The re-enactments didn’t _really_ show what had happened, so it wasn’t quite as important that he saw everything on the screen. It wasn’t really a deal breaker that he didn’t understand all of what the forensic people were talking about when they brought up blood spatter patterns or the process for getting more DNA out of a sample from a scene. Colin liked hearing about the details that they couldn’t show.

Take the case of a man - that the consulting psychologist assured everyone was an evil psychopath - who had lured a teenage boy to his home, put something in his drink, strangled him until he was unconscious, and then drowned the boy in the bathtub. (This all seemed like an awful amount of work, but apparently, the man had to follow his routine.) It certainly wasn’t an everyday occurrence, and Colin was shocked and uncomfortable with the level of violence (even if it made his privates warm). Afterwards, the man would bathe his victim and clean him up, and then he kept the boy.

(Sneaking a look at the telly won him a vague re-enactment with most of the screen devoted to a bare back and enough movement to know the man was thrusting his hips into something below him.)

The man kept the boy below his floorboards until he had to cut the body into pieces and dispose of it. According to the detective, the man vehemently denied having sexual intercourse with his deceased victims, but he did admit to laying them on the bed alongside himself when he wanted to ‘pleasure himself’ (both phrases sounded similar, so Colin wasn’t quite sure what the difference was). Regardless, the re-enactment strongly implied the man mounted his victims like the crows and squirrels were wont to do, which shocked everyone in the courthouse (and made Colin’s privates tingle).

Granted, a lot of the cases had different details. Sometimes the man lured women to his home to strangle and rape. Other times the man got violent during a fight and killed his girlfriend, fiancée, or wife. Wives and husbands had to be particularly careful about life insurance and poison, but all in all, the consulting psychologist always assured everyone that the murderer was an evil psychopath. Colin suspected that phrase had to be included as an official denouncement of the behaviour included in each episode, but he rather wished the psychologist didn’t talk about low self-esteem, loneliness, or how the men couldn’t have girlfriends after the narrator gave a detail that couldn’t be shown in the re-enactment. He was just as relieved as other people that the dangerous men were caught and couldn’t hurt more victims, but speculation about abnormalcy really made him feel guilty that his privates would tingle at the detail that a serial killer would return to the woods where he’d buried a victim, climb down into her grave, and thrust into her again. (Technically, the coroner used different words, but Colin was still working out what some of the medical words meant. It had taken an embarrassingly long time for him to figure out that the arsehole was the same thing as the anus and rectal penetration was going up the arse.)

It was a simple fascination.

Shortly after Colin turned eight, his grandad from Mum’s side passed away. He felt guilty that he didn’t feel sad, but he was quite certain it was only because Grandad had been in pain for the last few months. It would just be a lot easier to figure out what he was feeling if everyone could agree on what happened. His aunt said that Grandad was in heaven, Mum said that he had gone somewhere where he wasn’t in pain anymore, and his uncle had nervously blurted out that he was sleeping at the wake. Colin didn’t want to ask them if, perhaps, they just didn’t know where Grandad had gone, but his body had gone still like the dead crows and squirrel, like the re-enactments of murder victims.

He looked peaceful, like he really could be sleeping inside the casket, and Colin wished he could crawl inside to take a Sunday nap with Grandad. It’d be nice and quiet in there, and as long as he took out all of the flowers, there’d be enough room for them to lay side by side like they used to on Grandad’s large bed. The only problem was that Grandad wasn’t wearing his trousers with the stretchy elastic band or his jumper, but whoever put the suit on him could take it off and put on his usual clothes. Colin wasn’t allowed to take a picture of Grandad in his casket because it was “disrespectful” to his memory, but he couldn’t figure out a way to get his aunt to understand that he wanted to keep this memory.

It was easy to bury the prompts and causes of what made Colin’s dick warm and half hard when he was younger and enjoyed humping his pillow for the sheer pleasure of it. The shoe box full of polaroids of crows mounting freshly dead bodies had been pushed to the back of his cupboard and his old textbooks were stacked on top of it. Out of sight, out of mind. He ignored the tingling when a detective talked about vaginal bruising, heard the re-enactment slap of an abusive boyfriend, saw the legs of a posed body spread wide on the bed where she was killed. Colin was a good son, and he wasn’t going to tell a soul what part of _The Lord of the Flies_ he kept rereading. Thankfully, his Hogwarts letter had arrived, and he could focus on fitting into this new world of magic where he might be normal.

Except it wasn’t that easy or simple. Barely two months into the fall term, Colin Creevey was Petrified, and he wasn’t revived until the end of May.

Petrification wasn’t as simple as sleeping because it was like waking up within a dream to find that he was still dreaming. An ugly dream of him laying still as death in the corridor where he’d tried to take a picture of the giant serpent, and a beautiful fiery coloured bird larger than him had flown in and clawed out the serpent’s eyes. For a brief moment, he was grateful that the thing was dying, but then the bird’s attention was on him and its wings were ashen black - crow black - it was a monstrously large crow trying to balance on his back and thrust into him. It wasn’t cawing but crying (the gasping sound of a human crying that made him tingle), and as each tear drop fell onto him, he could move his limbs a little more until he wasn’t Petrified. When the bird flew away, he was left panting, and confused, and alive with a half hard dick.

The giant serpent had bleed out on the corridor floor, but it’s blood was a curious colour - dark and glossy black like a mirror - thick, so thick and warm - and his dick twitched. He didn’t so much as think about it as he suddenly found himself standing next to the serpent’s head with his trousers unzipped and one hand guiding his dick into the bloody eye socket. It was hot and slick, and he wasn’t as grossed out by the black blood collecting on the front of his clothes as he probably should’ve been. He wondered if he could find the cloaca and thrust into it - in a serpent this large, he could probably get most of his hips into the large opening - but he didn’t want to break this rhythm. He was panting, and confused, and felt alive as white cum painted the inside of the eye socket.

Colin tried not to think about the flashes of memory and glimpses of sexual activity he could remember from his months Petrified in the hospital wing. He certainly never said a word to anyone, least of all Madam Pomfrey.

Losing that much time in a magically suspended stasis had delayed some physical aspects of puberty, and he couldn’t yet get any white liquid to so much as dribble when he wanked. That summer before Colin started his so-called Second Year, he tried to imagine thrusting into a witch. He tried to picture someone his age - bright red hair - Ginny. She was laying beneath him because that was expected in the safe position of missionary. She was still because he didn’t want to get distracted by figuring out arm movements and what she was doing in this fantasy. Her eyes were closed - she was pale - she had almost died in the Chamber of Secrets - he wanted her arranged, peacefully, in a casket. Naked, and a little cool to the touch. He wanted to spread her legs and thrust into her - kneez? The slang based on kneazle rolled around awkwardly on his tongue - he wanted to thrust into her vagina. Could he use a Warming Charm to give her body a little more heat? His pelvic muscles twitched, but he couldn’t cum yet to that thought.

Colin shivered in the Dementor chill of the Hogwarts Express. He couldn’t tell how he felt about the thing that had passed by outside his compartment when everyone else looked to be on the verge of tears. An older Wizarding raised student had stammered out an explanation of the not fully alive bodies cloaked in black with mouths like a hoover. A First Year yet to be sorted had sniffled. Colin’s stomach had done something unpleasant and swoopy like he was back in Flying lessons, but his dick was also uncomfortably warm. He didn’t particularly understand the non-Being status and how something that seemed almost alive was considered dead in Wizarding law, but for good or for ill, biology didn’t pay attention to that. He wanted a Dementor to be drawn to the happiness radiating off him as he wanked, and he wanted it to wrap decaying lips around his head and suck the happiness out of him. Did a Dementor have enough of a mouth to even give a blowjob? Would it have enough of a body for him to do anything else? Could he even ask or manipulate it into staying around long enough to try? Would he be able to withstand the full soul-despairing effects of direct proximity to a Dementor? Fantasizing about a non-Being was surprisingly difficult.

Nothing in the Wizarding world was simple.

Blonde hair peeked out from around Harry’s black and red outfit and then Mr. Diggory’s robes that billowed around him.

Unresponsive to Harry clutching at his arm and the Triwizard Tournament Cup. Unresponsive to his father rocking him as he cried.

If he were alive, he’d be smiling and have dimples, but he was still and limp.

Cedric Diggory was dead.

Cedric - Cedric - Cedric - _Cedric_ -

Colin was careful to muffle his panting and kept the whispered litany (the moan curling around his name) inside his head. He couldn’t justify who his dick liked, even if he had never given the older Hufflepuff a second glance on or off the Quidditch pitch. A rippling of muscle built up from flying wasn’t the point. It didn’t particularly matter if there was a soft dick instead of a warm hole. He kept imagining the impossible. Cedric just back from wherever he was killed and lying in wait in a private room in the castle. Colin was left to slowly pull his clothes off, Vanish the soiled pants and mess, and gently clean his body and pat it dry. Warm and still mostly fresh skin. Malleable and not yet in rigor mortis. Colin wanted a contraption to hold Cedric in place - on his stomach, legs spread apart, arse in the air. He kept imagining the impossible. Dribbling a warm and tingling lubricant over his cock, rubbing it against Cedric’s entrance, rocking into him. Thrusting his hips quickly until - Cedric - Cedric - Cedric - _Cedric_ \- His toes curled, his thighs shook, and his abdominal muscles spasmed. Colin knew it was “disrespectful to Cedric’s memory” to return to the fantasy of his cock being balls deep in Cedric’s arse while preparing him to lay in wake, but he kept imagining the impossible.

Nothing in the Wizarding world was easy.

You-Know-Who was back according to Harry, and Colin couldn’t stop his subconscious from remembering the whispered stories about werewolves helping You-Know-Who in the war before he was born. It intermixed with technically inaccurate Muggle associations, and he couldn’t stop dreaming about a large wolf shifting into her human form after death. Despite waking up covered in cum, he hadn’t had a dream about fucking her.

You-Know-Who was back according to Harry, and Colin felt defenseless against the unknown. He tried to pay a little more attention in Divination, particularly after Professor Umbridge’s stunt got Trelawney replaced with Firenze. It helped if he didn’t look at the centaur directly because his eyes would follow the curve of Firenze’s spine across a broad back (ideal for frotting against) and down the tail (arse or cock). He could get his whole hand and most of his arm inside that arse, and imagining fisting one’s professor made it awfully difficult to pay attention to the lesson. Colin could easily slide his dick inside that arse, but he also wanted to feel the gigantic horse cock in his hands. The logistics for anything else seemed complicated given the size discrepancies and humans not bearing the weight of mounting horses, but that didn’t mean Colin couldn’t imagine a handjob with a tonne of cum.

You-Know-Who was back according to Harry, and Colin couldn’t stop his subconscious from returning to the Muggle werewolf lore. He dreamt he was captured by Death Eaters and forced to drink a lust potion before a large wolf was introduced to his cell. She was too weak to fight, and he switched between thrusting into the rough anal sphincter and the smooth heat of her vagina. She went still, and then the soft fur against his thighs and hips were replaced with human skin. The death shift squeezed the muscles around his burning cock, and he couldn’t stop himself. A Death Eater stood outside of the cell and laughed about a placebo - _The Mudblood’s no better than a crow_ -

You-Know-Who was back according to Harry, and Colin was crawling out of his skin with frustration, sexual or otherwise. Going down to Hogsmeade to sit in Madam Puddifoot’s Tea Shop with a witch was immeasurably boring. He didn’t want to make small talk, he didn’t want to figure out the peculiar Morse code for what intertwining their fingers was supposed to mean, and he didn’t have the patience for a polite peck on the cheek, let alone snogging. It’d be one thing if Colin couldn’t figure out how dating worked and wasn’t interested in sex, but he wanted to try to have sex with a living human and couldn’t figure out how to get to that point. Honestly, it was much easier to make due.

Ever the nice Gryffindor, Colin paid a visit to Hagrid after the Third Years had finished their lesson on flobberworms, so that he could take one to Professor Snape in order to demonstrate the proper mucus collection method. If Hagrid mentioned this to Snape and he had questions, Colin reckoned it wouldn’t be that difficult to tell Snape that the flobberworm had died from overeating lettuce because the poor thing had indeed done so. He just didn’t need to mention that he had kept it for a few hours in his dorm and waited for that to happen, so he could have one good final collection of the viscous green slime. It was a dark green, and if one squinted in just the right light, it was almost black. To the surprise of many students brewing their first Wiggenweld Potion, it was actually considered safe for consumption purposes immediately after being collected without filtration.

To Colin’s surprise, it actually made a decent lubricant, and really, it seemed appropriate given that he was going to wank himself with each of the flobberworm’s mouths while it was still warm. There was a twisting upper and lower digestive tract that fed different portions of the flobberworm, and it didn’t have teeth in either mouth. With enough patience and plenty of mucus, he could slowly roll the flobberworm down his dick until he reached a resistant spot in the tract, and then he could thrust his hips up into the warm softness. Usually, he was rough with the first mouth because he wanted to cum quickly enough that he could finish with the second mouth before the flobberworm went stiff. He needed both hands at the widest midpoint to control it, but it wasn’t really about finesse.

Tonight though, Colin had made a slight adjustment - a Preservation Charm immediately upon death. It would keep the flobberworm hot and fresh, and he could take his time with both mouths. Maybe go slow and tease himself for a few hours. Maybe he could dig out that vial of a lubricant mixed with a lust potion that lowered refractory time, so he could cum several times tonight. He had always wanted to try leaving the flobberworm on to cockwarm him, and the thought of waking up in the middle of the night to hump his pillow with this slick heat still enveloping him made his dick twitch appreciatively.

Due to how well-known the Headmaster was in the Wizarding world, there were a lot of friends, former students, well-wishers, and reporters at Albus Dumbledore’s funeral. Colin was relieved that he couldn’t see him because he wasn’t sure he could handle what thoughts might sneak out from the dark corners while he tried to say goodbye. Despite Dumbledore not literally being a grandfather, there was something about the twinkling eyes and beard that evoked memories of Grandad.

He couldn’t.

He couldn’t.

He couldn’t.

5 May 1998

Obituaries from The Battle of Hogwarts, Part III (Cs):

Colin Creevey was a Sixth Year Gryffindor (b. 1981), who passed while protecting the school he loved dearly. Colin was a loving son, enthusiastic photographer, and had plans to one day catch a Snitch on film. He was a light to his friends and family in the dark times of the war and will be deeply missed. He is survived by his parents [names redacted for Muggle safety concerns] and younger brother Dennis. A memorial for current students lost in the war is planned for 21 June in the Ministry of Magic’s Atrium (Sixth Years will be addressed at 12:30 pm). A private memorial and funeral will be held separately for Muggle relatives and friends; please owl any flowers or condolences to Dennis Creevey.

**Author's Note:**

> I misremembered the species of squirrel (it was not a grey squirrel, which can be found in the UK), and I shifted the means of death associated with the ground squirrel (an article summarizes the study [here](https://www.improbable.com/2015/04/29/farewell-robert-w-dickerman-the-biologist-who-coined-davian-behavior/)). Honestly, I used the section on [Davian behaviour](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Necrophilia#Other_animals) as loose inspiration more so than trying to recreate the exact details here.
> 
> Certain details related to Dennis Nilsen - a [homicidal necrophile](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dennis_Nilsen) who killed in the London area between 1978 and 1983 - are also present, but this is not meant to be autobiographical or a factual retelling of the case.
> 
> You don’t truly need to be familiar with _The Lord of the Flies_ to understand this characterization of Colin, but it’s a nod to the confused classmate in my English class. Yes, the killing of the sow did sound like it was written with attention to the penetration of the spear. Yeah, orgiastic killing and whatnot. As far as I can remember, symbolic eroticism, but that doesn’t preclude a burgeoning necrophile from giving that section another read.
> 
> Edited (27 April) To Add: This fic was born out of a Daylight Savings Time change fueled potentially hypomanic period with a focus on Petrification side effects and necrophilia. While it was written in early March and posted on the 28th, it is not meant to be connected to the irl victims of Covid-19.


End file.
